Write4Me

Imagine, our names written on the sand of some beach in South America, where our hearts meet again, never to get lost again and tell me if it doesn't make you want to be(a)lieve in forever. I got your name written on my skin, in a language that escapes your logic, in an ink that can't be seen, nor touched. But honey, you can't tell me you don't feel it. It doesn't stain, it doesn't bleed. Your eyes, I swear, I can swim into them, and I would swim for days and months, and eternity, to reach your soul. But you keep closing all windows, locking all doors. Are you scared? I'm not scared, nor terrified.

You are tired. We both know you are. And we know that we have an expiration date, printed on our hearts. But honey, maybe we're like a fine wine. Maybe we need time to pass us by. I promise, even though I said I wouldn't promise anymore, that even if my heart rots, I will keep you close. Tell me, do you honestly believe that we will be able, to just move on and forget each other, only for a couple miles, only for a couple 365 days? I will wait. And you will too. and I know, deep inside, buried underneath all this fear, that we are like water. We flow together, we fade away, but we always rain back

I am me, and I've told you one(thousand) time(s) that it kills me when you don't l i s t e n. It's all about listening when I break, about closing your eyes and concentrating on the high pitch sound of shattering glass inside me, at the very bottom of me, in this inexplicable vacuum you once called a heart but now I can't, I won't, I shouldn't find it right here beating tum-tum tum-tum tum-tum. So why, why must it keep pumping red crimson heavy liquid across my scarred veins? Why must it keep me going, walking, talking when hearts were made for feeling and I don't, I don't anymore. Tell me, lie to

I have to admit I'm kind of a romantic, you know? I'm always putting emotions over reason, overlapping them. Too bad, they're both like watercolours. Imagine, Imagine blue stands for emotion, and yellow, that bright colour I never liked, stands for reason. And all of a sudden, you have green. You don't know how, or when, but you can't distinguish the blue from the yellow, and what happened to the white under it? It's all mixed up, the world's upside down and twisted into abstract paintings that I fail to understand. Isn't it confusing?

I'm never going to forget the first day you came to school. I was wondering if it would be a year as lonely as the last when I saw you, the new girl with the long black hair and the funny nose that fitted her face so well. You were making a very lame attempt to understand Paola, who failed to put her words in the right order with a pronunciation that really, no human being who knew her for less than 5 months could understand. We started to hang out for the next couple of weeks and the February 10th, on your birthday, I remember I gave you a pair of earrings I made myself and I found a year later in a little box in your closet, I thought you h

It starts with I'm never going to leave you And ends with peanuts in a bag, a seat in economic class and a girl crying at the airport.

She sits on the edge of the abyss, as she lights up another cigarette, not a star, those were put out long ago, by the smoke her tortured lungs chew up, and spit out. Curling up, so thin, so free, forming new clouds. There are no clear skies. No brighter days. Nothing lights up, but her cigarettes. She sits still, no free-falling, no hitting the bottom. Just wondering, if the billowing smoke she can see down there coming from hell, or wherever else, would taste as bitter, as her dear nicotine friend.

Is it even necessary for me to describe her? She's the blood on your hands, right after you killed somebody's loved ones, reminding you of the awful person you believe you are and the sins you hopelessly bury under your pillow, so they will keep quiet and let you pretend you fell asleep the following nights. But somehow, she makes you feel good. It's the burning feeling you get every time she lets words slither out of her sick mind onto your tongue. You spell out her thoughts as the piercing eyes of society judge you. How could you ever explain it's not you talking if that smile, on your lips at the trial as you said

She is all messed up, or is it mixed up? Because inside it felt like everything was mixing, words,facts,emotions,colours. But mainly colours. paint and water, mixing. He sang when he couldn't find the appropriate words, and she painted replies, with watercolours. She put the world into paper, in surreal colours you wouldn't recognize. Because this is a grey world to our eyes. Shades of pink, green, blue, and maybe some purple right there. To cover up the same old  pain. why hide it? embrace it But she did not. Among paintbrushes and palettes, she found comfort. She took everything in, and painted everything out. But